


In Which John is a Wizard, and He Lets Sherlock Experience His World

by kenporusty



Series: Wizards At Play [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Young Wizards
Genre: Dai Stiho!, Gen, John is a wizard, M/M, Sherlock is astounded, The Johnlock is faint, Written for my cousins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenporusty/pseuds/kenporusty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a wizard. Sherlock is observant. If they are to be flat mates, John must share his world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John is a Wizard, and He Lets Sherlock Experience His World

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been badgering me for a while.
> 
> I marked it M/M and Johnlock, but really, it's a WHIFF of Johnlock.
> 
> Please, enjoy!
> 
> If anyone comes here via the Sherlock fandom, do check out Diane Duane's Young Wizards series! They are absolutely wonderful!

How Sherlock Holmes came to be enjoying a beverage not entirely like iced tea in one of the myriad small cafés in the interstellar hub known as The Crossings on Rirhath B is a mildly remarkable story.  


It begins, of course, with a man. John Watson, a 5’ 6” ape descendant on a backwater little planet in the Milky Way galaxy where everything is sevarfrith, much to his chagrin. 

Especially when it came to explaining his odd disappearances and seemingly lack of energy to his flat mate and companion, the aforementioned Sherlock Holmes.  


Of course, the story stretches farther back than John’s relationship with Holmes, farther even than his time as an army doctor. When he thinks of those days, he has to smile. Even with wizardry, he could not talk his skin out of scarring so terribly. No, his story goes farther back. To when he was a boy.  


A boy of twelve to be precise; a good age to wake with strange words rattling about in your head. A good age to string the words together and say them aloud, and be thrown into a frightening, character building experience of the Ordeal. A boy of twelve came through and into the full power of adolescence.  


Around age fifteen his specialty shifted towards the healing arts, and he was compelled to follow his wizardly life with his non-wizardly life.  


At age twenty, Harry witnessed John’s disappearance, leading to a confession, and jealous accusations and claims of disbelief.  


That rift has never healed properly.  


And when John greeted his old friend sitting on a park bench only to be ushered into the same room as Sherlock Holmes he found himself desperately wishing to work an invisibility spell for the first time in years. Not simply from the immediate deduction about John’s life, that did not make him twitch nearly as much as being examined by those eyes. Intelligent, sharp, and quick. He wanted to drop the spell from his lips and disappear, running off, running away from the scrutiny. The wonderful scrutiny.  


However, he did need a flat mate, so he endured the fire that Sherlock set.  


Chasing the cab through the streets, John was tempted to call up a spell to hold off the fatigue and the stitch, but dismissed the working before the framework of the spell set itself in his mind. The fatigue he would feel later would not be worth the effort now.  


He did ensure that he made it to the other roof as he followed that flowing coat.  


He checked. Sherlock was not listed in the directory.  


The first few months, he found little time to escape. He debated telling Sherlock of the wizardry, but every time he got close, he turned away. He made up excuses for his absences, for his tiredness, or for his frayed nerves. Living on his own, not having to hide from a flat mate, being able to disguise subtle wizardry in the desert has made John Watson into a twitchy man, when it comes to wizardry.  


By the fourth month he has a successful blog. He takes a few days off - personal vacation he explained. Sherlock never noticed. He came back with a leather bound journal he kept hidden from Sherlock. When Sherlock did find it, he found it was nothing more than a blank moleskin journal.  


“In case we are out and I need to make notes,” John said straight-faced. This was not a complete lie. Wizards cannot lie, at least when using the Speech.  


And when he spoke with Sherlock, he repeated the words in his mind in the Speech, even if the words on his lips were in English. He could not lie to Sherlock. But he could hide. His Manual now lived in the notebook, no longer trapped in his mind. No longer did he have to stare into the distance to get some variable he needed. Mind, he still did stare into space, but for other reasons now.  


“You are hiding something, John,” drifted the flat words between the dulcet tones of a violin.  


John raised an eyebrow, “oh? And what would I hide from you, Sherlock?”  


“I can that you are hiding an activity that you have not invited me to join. I can say you went to Ireland when you took a few days off. I can say that your journal, though it looks rather plain, contains secrets that only you would understand.” Sherlock turned to where John sat in the armchair, long arms dropped, the violin set loving down.  


Long strides brought Sherlock across the room; long fingers gripped the arms of the chair, brushing delicately against John’s forearms. Slate eyes looked into John’s.  


“Between flat mates, hiding things can lead to discontent and anger.” A glance down to the book in John’s lap, and quick eyes came back to his own.  


“The wizard’s oath,” Sherlock said the words slowly. “You read young adult stories in your free time?”  


John found himself frozen, confronted with both Sherlock and the possibility of being discovered. Under the questioning gaze, he steeled himself, picking up the book, forearms brushing thumbs, and handed it to his flat mate. If the Powers let the book fall open to the Oath, then it was out of John’s hands.  


“Tea?” John asked, standing, forcing Sherlock upright and back a few paces.  


John put the kettle on as he heard Sherlock ghosting the words of the Oath in the next room. Quietly he thanked the Powers That Be that Sherlock was entirely too old to become a wizard. Well. Too old in Earth hominid terms. A page turned. No more words. Sherlock was reading the material that came up. The Earth précis. A page. More précis. This time it was Europe. Page. The UK. Page. England. Page. London.  


He came out with the tea tray. Sherlock looked to be in his palace, brown journal clasped in one hand, long fingers mindlessly caressing the cover. He did not move, and he barely blinked. He breathed. Long and deep. The breath of a man trying to keep control. More pages and the book dropped. John said a string of words and the book stopped mid-air.  


Tall and slim rounded on short and well built. Incredulous eyes followed the book as John waved it back to himself. A cup of tea was in his hands. Long fingers caressed the mug with the same care as the book. Lust, wonder, and jealousy danced through a single expression. Wide eyes and pursed lips.  


“Let me show you,” Said against the better judgment. Last time he opened himself he came away hurt.  


He knew enough for a cursory display. He knew enough about Sherlock, but there was always more to know. Opening to a page full of Speech, he drew a spell from the page, glowing amber in excitement of being used. A flick and the spell glowed on the floor.  


“Put the tea down and step into the circle. Do not step on any of the words,” he pointed to the bare floor within the spell.  


Sherlock did as he was told, not breathing. Eyes on John and the book. John thought, consulted the book, and added a smaller circle. Their destination. John chewed his lip in thought. Not too far. Somewhere close enough to prove the wizardry. Somewhere around the corner.  


He traced in his location on the floor. It neatly slipped into the circle, latching itself in with the rest of spell. John walked around the circumference of the spell, adding pieces of information. He looked at Sherlock and scribbled something else on the floor. Sherlock turned to follow him, watching with wide, curious eyes.  


John straightened, looked his work over and stepped in to stand across from Sherlock. He sat squatted and tied together the circle with the wizard’s knot, both ends, grasping hungrily for the knot, eager to be complete.  


“Don’t say anything.” John said sharply to Sherlock.  


He cleared his throat and began to read, the words of the Speech falling from his mouth in a familiar rhythm. The air began to sing the sound ears sing in silence and 221B Baker Street, and the universe beyond, leaned in to listen to the words John spoke, the instructions to life, the universe, and everything. He slid through Sherlock’s name as if he already knew the details by heart. Which he did, most of the details at least, there were some things that needed clarification.  


With a clap of displaced air, John made sure the sound happened outside, the world slid away and went dark for a long second before reappearing. John was panting, bent double, leaning his hands on his knees. Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he stared at the fluttering flags stretching from a central post. Harsh wind whipped around them, but it was not cold. There should be no oxygen, but he could breathe easily. By all rights, they should have dropped dead from exposure as soon as they appeared.  


He took three steps and looked at John for permission.  


John nodded, “10 yards from here in any direction. You’ll know when you reach the edge of the bubble.”  


“This is amazing, John. Simple fascinating. We’re at the summit of Everest when two seconds ago we were home.” Sherlock said quickly, turning around, taking in the whole vista. He stopped and stared at the valley below, currently hidden by a storm cloud.  


“I brought you somewhere you would believe that this book,” John held up the book as he crunched over the stand beside Sherlock. “I knew that if I took you somewhere, like Cornwall, or the Lake District, you would brush me off.”  


“Yes,” Sherlock sounded distracted. “I might have. Might have said you were working with Mycroft.”  


Sherlock was silent for a few moments, fingers steepled together, studying the pattern of the snow at our feet.  


“Where else can we go?” He asked a mischievous glint in his eyes.  


John opened his mouth and shut it again. This was going nothing like that time with Harry.  


It was going much, much better.  


“How far do you want to go?” John asked slowly.  


“What do you mean? Off Earth?” Sherlock sounded giddy.  


“Yes. To the moon, or to Mars, but that is a huge toll on me. I don’t have the power of a teenager anymore.” John frowned. He had taken his adolescent power for granted. “No, to go somewhere else, we should go to The Crossings.” A slow smile spread across John’s face.  


“The…Crossings? What is the Crossings?”  


“The Crossings Intercontinual Worldgating Facility. On Rirhath B. You will love it there.”  


John opened his Manual and pulled a string of Speech words off the page, dropping it onto the snow. He waved Sherlock in, sealed the circle, spoke a few words and with a clap, they were back in London.  


At King’s Cross station. Sherlock looked around, expecting to see the Hogwart’s Express.  


“My sort of wizardry is nothing like Harry Potter,” John sighed. “Rowling had friends and borrowed here and there, but our two worlds are entirely different.”  


John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, pulling him flush. “We are under an invisibility spell. We need to get out of the camera’s view, and then find a cat.”  


“A cat?” Sherlock said incredulously, making no effort to pull his hand away.  


“Yes. Cats are very good at seeing and manipulating the string structure of world gates. King’s Cross holds a very popular gate that will take us to The Crossings.”  


John led Sherlock through the crowd to a corner he knew was not watched, by human or camera, or even by cat. He spoke, and the spell dissolved. They walked out and followed the flow of people to the main concourse. John busily flipped through his Manual.  


“Wait, here we are. Crossing is patent in ten minutes, track 9.” He snapped the book shut with satisfaction, slipping it back into an inner pocket.  


“I could sit you down and ask you a million questions John.” Sherlock said softly.  


“You can do that at The Crossings. We’ll have plenty of time there,” John smiled at his companion, his coworker.  


Sherlock just nodded and followed John, quietly, obediently.  


“What you’ve seen, what you’ve read, and what I’ve told you, you cannot repeat this to anyone. This world does not know about wizardry, we have to keep it secret. Likely Mycroft knows about wizardry, he knows about everything, but you still cannot talk to him about this.”  


Sherlock sniffed, “Why would I tell him my bo...” he caught himself. “My flat mate took me to Everest on a whim?”  


John raised an eyebrow at him. “We are going to have a talk later, but for now, we wait for the gate.”  


The platform for track 9 was alive with people rushing to board the train, kissing loved ones, promising to bring back sweeties and gifts from trips, and the few impatient ones who stared at their watches. Eventually the train pulled out from the station with a glad sigh and John pulled Sherlock to a blind corner again, dropping the cloaking spell on them once more.  


“The gate is patent. You need to jump into that shimmering spot there,” John said quietly, weaving to the end of the track and pointing at the slight waver of rainbow iridescence.  


Sherlock did as he was told, his vision going back, and returning inside the soaring, imposing sight of the Crossings. He fell to his knees and stared around open-mouthed, not caring who or what saw. The interpenetrating ceilings floated above. John allowed Sherlock a moment before hauling him to his feet, and ushering him towards customs clearance. John’s manual was all they needed.  


“I am starved. Want some dinner?” John asked.  


Sherlock looked at him, fierce eyed, excited, overwhelmed, fascinated, curious. He nodded and followed John down the long corridor to a tiny bar where a couple years ago a man in a fawn-colored jacket helped an American girl on her Ordeal escape and set in motion the events that would save the world.  


Sherlock found a glass of something that looked like iced tea, but tasted of strawberries and melons, pouring over what English sections were available in John’s manual, asking every question he could possibly think of.  


He was going to need a lot of time.  


He could not think of anyone better to be his guide.


End file.
